The Cyanide Stone
by MaidenofIron157
Summary: Ichabod Crane is caught in London by Scotland Yard, supposed to be doing illegal activities of black magic. They take him to Sherlock Holmes, and the two embark on a journey that may just be the death of them, or not.
1. A Kidnapping?

*I watched Guy Ritchie's 'Sherlock Holmes' and Tim Burton's 'Sleepy Hollow', and I just thought of something- even though Ichabod Crane (played by Johnny Depp) and Sherlock Holmes (played by Robert Downey, Jr.) are at least half a century apart, they're both eccentric geniuses pent on solving unsolvable cases. Why the Hell not, eh?*

"This is utterly ridiculous- !" New York City Constable, Ichabod Crane, spoke up in his own weak defense, holding up his chain-cuffed hands with the smallest sign of a scowl on his shallow, pale features.

"Maybe," the Inspector, his name Lestrade, from what Ichabod had heard, said in a ruthless manner. It sent him back a bit; what had he done that had upset the marshals so? And where were they taking him? All he really knew was that he'd come to England for some research on something he'd read in a letter of someone anonymous, about a murder- multiple ones, actually. They'd written that they'd read in the papers about his endeavors in Sleepy Hollow- oh, the thought alone nearly sent a chill up his spine.

However, a mystery was a mystery, and he promised himself he would solve this one at all costs, as he had with the Headless Horseman. So, he'd said his short farewell to Katrina and Young Masbath and set off. Of course, he hadn't expected at least ten Scotland Yard officials to come bursting into the apartment he'd been staying in for the past two days, not say why, handcuff him, and shove him into a carriage that traveled off to some unknown area, most likely the station or worse.

But for the life of him, he couldn't think of WHY. All he'd been doing was testing the result of dipping white hot coal into a ice cold basin of cyanide. It faintly bubbled and sizzled, and when he stuck a quill feather-side-up inside it'd charred and dissolved into ash. He had been perfecting the heat intensity for the last twenty-four hours he'd spent there, and obviously someone had targeted him and ratted to the police what they believed he'd been practicing. Ichabod hadn't gotten very far in his explanation that night before they'd taken him into custody.

A moment's pause, Ichabod blankly staring out the window to his right, hands resting in lap, back slightly hunched. His dark locks were more askew than its usual ruffles, face a dead white as his deep, nearly jet chocolate brown eyes carelessly trailed over the street they were currently attending. His eyes followed a sign, then continued examining the cobblestone pavement, brick buildings and oblivious pedestrians; BAKER STREET, it had read it large, bold lettering. Not that it mattered much either way.

Ichabod parted his lips, eyes never leaving his subconscious gaze, almost comatose. "You are not taking me to the station, Inspector Lestrade." He'd said the last part quietly, to himself.

"No," Lestrade agreed as the carriage lurched to a halt in front of a home. Ichabod looked up through the window, paying not the slightest inch of attention to the other, even as he opened the door and let himself out. 221b. 221b Baker Street. He had and inkling he'd never forget that address again.

"C'mon, boy-o," Lestrade said, catching Ichabod's icy glance as Clarke took firm hold on his shoulders, steering him out the cab and onto the damp sidewalk in front of the home. Ichabod returned his gaze to the building, taking in what he hadn't seen from the interior of the cab. On the second story, the curtains, blood red velvet, he noticed, were tightly drawn, preventing the little light from the clouded sky pouring over the streets in intervals of sixteen seconds to enter.

"You DO know I can walk?" Ichabod's question was more of a statement as Lestrade led the two up the concrete porch stairs, Clarke pushing him forward after him but not roughly. The New Yorker was glaring coldly at the back of Lestrade's hatted head.

The Inspector knocked multiple times on the wood, throwing his head over his shoulder merely to recoil the slightest at the chilling glare Ichabod was sending him. "You are a threat to London and possibly all of England as of this moment and two days therein," Lestrade told him flatly, so bland that the other believed he'd rehearsed that line before saying it to his face.

The Constable's brow rose in confusion. "Why?"

"That is classified information, sir," Clarke answered, Lestrade turning back as the door opened, revealing a scruffy man with unkempt dark brunette hair sticking out every which way, eyebrows knitted in annoyance upon the intrusion and a clay pipe clamped between his lips. His clothing, a smudged and chemical-blotched white button-up shirt haphazardly tucked inside his dusty black trousers, differed greatly from Ichabod's own of a pristine white undershirt, pitch black trench coat buttoned once at the chest, black dress pants and high boots.

And to Ichabod, he looked oddly familiar.

The New Yorker mimicked his features of irritation, curious as his eyes thoroughly scrutinized his face. "Why have you disturbed my thoughts, Inspector?" The man's voice was hissed due to anger, but the slightest bit curious, an intense tone of voice with hidden authority.

Clarke pushed Ichabod closer, Lestrade taking hold of his coat's sleeve and shoving him to his side. The man's eyes flickered distantly to him, returning his light glare to Lestrade. "He was caught dealing in the arts of witchcraft-"

"Witchcraft!" Ichabod shrieked, eyeing the man with obvious shock that was soon to wear out. "You accuse me of witchcraft!" He grinned in spite of himself, laughing shakily as his eyes darted this way and that, looking for the shadows- HIS shadows.

"We have witness," Lestrade stated, rather bluntly, never once removing his gaze from the man before them. "A young lady said he'd been conducting irregular experimentations about the room he'd been staying in for the past two days, saying he'd been-"

"Mixing potions," the man finished. His tone was sour. "And he was speaking to himself, suggesting-" He'd put emphasis on the word. "-he'd been pronouncing spells, curses and the like."

His bright chestnut eyes rested on Ichabod, who's breathing was quick, almost hyperventilative , eyebrows so high they were nearly lost in his bangs. The man took notice of his bent posture, trembling facade and worried eyes. He also realized how his nervousness was not due to how he might be discovered- or already had been- considering the conviction of black magic placed over his head. It was something else, something that terrified him to the very core, but he just couldn't place his finger on it.

A pause. "Am I correct, Inspector?"

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade grumbled, half shamefully, half exasperatedly.

Ichabod shifted his head sharply to give the Inspector an inquisitive look. Holmes? Why had that sounded so familiar? The man, Holmes, apparently, turned his own attention back to Lestrade. "Was the lady you spoke of wearing a ruby dress?" His voice was faint.

Lestrade nodded. "Had she black hair?" He nodded once more. "A gold chain 'round her neck?" Another nod. Holmes let an amused smile cross his lips.

Lestrade's features turned baffled as Holmes moved aside, taking his pipe out of his mouth and motioning for them to enter. "Prisoner only, Inspector," he instructed. Lestrade pushed Ichabod inside, the New Yorker stumbling slightly on the short step and Holmes catching him.

Ichabod nodded gratefully, eyes flickering to his face and then around the hall in fear as though it was on fire. "Thank you."

Holmes shot Lestrade a quick glare, having it dissolve on the spot as to not have him get suspicious as he smiled curtly. "That will be all, I presume. Good-bye."

Lestrade let out an aggravated sigh as Holmes carted Ichabod further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The Inspector removed his derby, massaging his temples.

The stress was really starting to get to him.

*First chapter. Tell me what'cha think. I promise they'll realize who the other is in the next. Pinky promise, yup yup yup! I'm just happy I was able to use such vivid vocabulary. Ichabod and Holmes'll be most likely OOC (Out Of Character) next one. Ah well. Review and tell me what'cha think, I could really use it. Damn writer's block!*


	2. Acquaintances

*Okay so... this one's pretty long... yeah.*

As soon as he'd closed the door the short corridor went dark, having Ichabod yelp, startled as he jumped. "Calm down, man, there's nothing in here that'll bite," Holmes chuckled, arm draped over his shivering shoulders.

Ichabod blinked multiple times, squeezing his eyes so tightly shut he saw flashes of neon. Opening them again his eyes easily adjusted to the black, seeing the hominess of the house. His eyes wavered back to Holmes, nodding in agreement and cracking a sheepish grin. "I suppose you're right," he admitted softly. His brow furrowed. "Your name, sir?"

"Sherlock Holmes, my good man," he introduced, bowing his head as he pulled out a hairpin from his pocket, change and metal rattling. "Consultive Detective."

Ichabod's grin vanished, expression turning serious. "Sh- sherlock... Holmes?" he stammered.

"Yes." Holmes nodded, twisting the hairpin in the lock of his handcuffs, succeeding in bringing a low click. "And yours?"

Ichabod paused, shaking the cuffs from his wrists and dropping them onto the floor. "Constable Crane, Sher- Mr. Holmes," he murmured, not daring to make eye contact whilst nearly slipping his tongue on the last part. Holmes' brow knitted as he looked over Ichabod's face in somewhat remembrance. "Constable Ichabod Crane, of... New York City."

"... Ichabod?" Holmes whispered, eyes flashing as his eyebrows shot up in shock.

He glanced up, hands clasped in front of himself, a weak yet guilty smile etching his lips as he shrugged apologetically. "Sorry for not writing Sherlock- or do you wish me to call you Detective Holmes now?"

Holmes grinned. "Its not at all any trouble, Ichabod, and I do prefer the former, thank you. Why have you returned to London? The Americas not to your liking anymore?"

"I was sent a letter from someone unknown," Ichabod explained, following Holmes into the sitting room. From what he could observe, it was cluttered with strange knick-knacks and odd contraptions even he had never seen before- and he'd invented some of his own, freakish design. It was still dark, and even though Ichabod deduced these were such things, he could only see their outlines in the dull lighting the storm brought as it shined through the ever so slightly closed curtains. The fire was out.

Holmes face gained a thinking look. "Was it written curved? Exceeding in tall loops?" he questioned, seating Ichabod down in a non-divulged chair, crouching down to snatch up the devices and set them on the chemical-flask strewn coffee table, clothing scattering the rugs and floorboards.

Ichabod nodded, used to Holmes' obscene detecting skills. No doubt he was well aware of who it was who'd both tipped the Scotland Yard AND sent himself the letter. "Yes. I could barely disfigure an 'l' from an 'f'."

"Did it smell of Jasmine perfume? Even the faintest hint of it?" he asked from the floor.

"Unlike yourself," Ichabod began with a smirk. "I do not hold the message to my nose to sniff it. But yes. It was extremely strong."

"The Woman strikes again!" Holmes muttered to himself, grin broadening as he continued his cleaning.

Ichabod looked around in interest. "Not given up the scientist wish, I see."

"Halfway only, Ichabod, halfway," Holmes corrected, straightening to his knees and ruffling a stack of parchment scrawled hastily over in notes upon notes. "I'm using them to experiment on Gladstone to see the effects."

"You own a pet?" Ichabod's brow instinctively rose.

"Its not MINE, precisely," Holmes admitted, setting the notes down on the armrest of the couch and continuing to crawl on the floor, picking up stray items as he went.

"So its a stray?" Ichabod was positive it wasn't, but couldn't help himself.

"It's Watson's," Holmes answered, tinkering with a small telescope. "He allowed me to keep it. Wouldn't say why, though."

"I see." Ichabod had met Dr. John Watson a few times prior before moving to New York City.

"Tell me, Ichabod," Holmes said, sounding genuinely intrigued. "What were you doing that had the whole of Scotland Yard accuse you of witchcraft?"

Ichabod chuckled airily. "Experimentation. How would hot coal react to cold cyanide?"

Holmes paused. "Hmm. Why hadn't I thought of that?"

"Nothing happened until six hours later," Ichabod stated, digging in his trench coat's left pocket. "The substance had reasonably cooled and created hardened crust." With those words he pulled a jagged, rock-like object out, holding it in front of his face as he inspected the sides. A coating of a sleek, gem-like contortion was covering it like plaster, and shimmered in the dimness, creating a rainbow affect on the clear, nearly silver surface.

Holmes got to his feet, brushing himself off of invisible dust as he made his way over to him, eyes narrowing at the stone. "Peculiar..." he trailed off, mostly to himself. "May I?..."

"By all means," Ichabod said heartily, handing it to him. "I didn't have enough time to examine the particles of the change myself."

Holmes' eyes pierced the object, inspecting it thoroughly. "Ichabod," he began. "D'you have how valuable frozen cyanide is?"

"No." He was discreet. "But guessing by your tone of voice, I'd say extremely so."

Holmes let out a laugh. "More than that. It's well near impossible to freeze the component. To have it in this state would be worth more than two fortunes."

"I don't care about money, Sherlock, you know that," Ichabod told him.

Holmes looked up, eyes locking. "Nor I- for the most part- but you must keep it a secret." He was unsuccessfully trying to contain his concern. "Greed can cause men to do terrible things/ They'd kill you without a second thought if they knew you housed this." He held up the stone.

"Then I shall be careful, I promise," Ichabod said in sincerity, cracking a small smile. Holmes grinned in relief, handing him back the stone.

"Good. Now," the detective said, clapping his hands together and lounging back in his own armchair, elbows propped on their rests, fingers entwined, legs crossed at the ankles as his eyes critically traveled over Ichabod's expression for any clue or sign of emotion. "Before turning back to my usual, interrogative self, I do ask how your life in the Americas has been."

"Quite good, actually," Ichabod admitted, hands folded in his lap, knees touching but feet spread about a foot apart as he let quiet sigh. "For the most part."

Holmes paused. "Would you mind elaborating?"

"No, no," Ichabod said with a shaking skull. "I was in Court one day, once again trying to persuade the High Constable to stop using such stupid ways of punishment for actions and crimes." Holmes merely nodded in agreement, and so he continued. "He suggested for me to head over to an upstate town. Sleepy Hollow. There'd been three murders there, the heads... lopped off and taken." He'd said the last part in a rushed whisper.

Holmes blanched. "Lopped off?" Hid tone was incredulistic.

Sullenly, Ichabod nodded, running his fingers through his tousles of hair trying to remember. Most of it was a blur. "I took a coach over," he explained, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. "You agree with me that the assassin had to be human, right?"

The detective nodded. "Obviously, if the heads were severed."

"Well... technically speaking..." Ichabod trailed off uncertainly, brown eyes apologetic. "... the one controlling him was human-"

"Are you implying the man was dead?" Holmes cut in.

"Don't you dare think me mad, Sherlock!" Ichabod exclaimed, eyes narrowed. "I SAW him! He WAS dead! He was riding a black stallion, and hadn't a head!"

Holmes removed his chin from his hands, resting them in his lap and cocking his head to one side. Multiple moments passed, during which Ichabod's stance remained rock solid, back rigid, shoulders square, arms tightly crossed.

"I don't think you mad, Ichabod," Holmes told him, heaving himself to his feet.

"Are you being truthful or just saying that so that you won't have to deal with my so-called idiocracy any longer?" the Constable snapped knowingly, casting him a glare as he made his way over.

"Of course I'm being truthful," Holmes said sincerely, setting a hand on his shoulder and bending down to be eye level with him. "You only ever get so upset when you know you're right and know one understands a word your saying."

The corners of Ichabod's mouth twitched as he smiled ever so slightly, nodding in agreement. "Yes, I suppose. But I'm also aware of how well you are at lying. Simply force of habit."

Holmes grinned, patting his shoulder reassuringly and straightening up.

*Okay, before any of you mondo 'Sherlock Holmes' fanatics go on a rant about, "Oh, they shouldn't be calling each other their first names! It's not normal!" Well tut tut to you wise cracks! I say Ichabod and Holmes have known each other since they were children, around seven or eight. Would they really be calling themselves by their last names? I know Watson and Holmes do, but I don't CARE, so what now?*


	3. Insectaphobia

*Re-going of what was occurring last. Not, like, a remake. I certainly didn't retype the entire thing. This, in my written form, was connected to the last chapter, not separated like so. ANYWAY...*

A roar of thunder raged and boomed, so loud Ichabod's eardrums nearly popped. The wind howled and whistled, the large sitting room windows threatening to bust as a crack of lightening stretched across the blackened clouds, illuminating the room in white for less then half a second.

Ichabod jumped, clutching the armrests so tightly his knuckles paled to paper white as he stared out the window at the storm brewing outside. Large drops of rain pelted from the clouds like gunfire, pouring over the very few pedestrians scampering around out in the streets. Their coats were draped over their heads have they not a hat, men sheltering women as they scurried this way and that as though a pack of mice from a large, hungry cat.

"You're welcome to stay here for the night," Holmes spoke up, turning Ichabod's attention back to him, grip easing on the chair. "I have a spare room."

"I can't let you do that, Sherlock," Ichabod said, getting to his feet. He jumped again and yelped when another hard crash of thunder exploded in the sky, followed by two to three bolts of lightening a mile long. Holmes gave him a stern yet smug look, to which he sighed at, eyes rolling to the ceiling. "Fine. But only tonight. I must get back to my studies; they might just have grown legs and a conscience and are bouncing off the walls."

"Oh, don't be so pessimistic, Ichabod," Holmes chuckled, leading him out the ever so slightly tidied sitting room up the staircase. In an undertone, to himself, he added, "Though that would be rather extraordinary..."

"Pessimistic? When have I ever been pessimistic?" Ichabod asked quickly, fingering the cyanide stone now secured in his pocket, eyebrows knitted.

"To many to count, old boy, though I do remember a specific time you said you'd fracture your neck if you went on a swing set (that's right; they had swings in 18-century London)," Holmes answered casually, opening a door to a barren room. Some dust was on the floorboards, symbolizing no one had been in there for quite some time. In fact, the only thing in the room was a bed and a dresser. The bed had a headboard and only two sheets. The pillow was gone, but thankfully not the curtains, blocking out any sign of the storm and, unfortunately, and light source.

Ichabod shot him a look that screamed, "Don't even go there." and looked around silently. "I'll fetch you a pillow," Holmes said, backing out and hurrying into his own room as the New Yorker stepped inside, hands clasped behind him as his eyes inspected the interior thoroughly for any sign of hidden entrance of intrusion.

Holmes returned shortly afterward with pillow in hand. Ichabod turned to him. "You don't have a uh..." he began. "Insect... problem, do you?"

Holmes smiled at him. "Still insectaphobic, I see," he took notice, tossing the pillow at his chest. Ichabod, having quick reflexes, caught it, flushing a pale pink.

"That's beside the question, Sherlock," he remarked, eyes narrowed in irritation.

"No, I don't," Holmes answered calmly, leaning on the door frame. "Let me be the first to tell you; Gladstone kindly take care of any pest entering this house. And if not, I do. Mrs. Hudson prefers not to spend her day trying to catch a rodent with a rotten piece of cheese."

"The landlady?" Ichabod had met her once, as well. She was extremely kind, but equally as skeptical of Holmes' practice and his experiments, for the better of society or no. Though she'd never admit it, and Holmes himself, for some reason or another, didn't see it, she was worried about his health, both physically and mentally. If not she would've already quit and be on her way to most likely another country.

Holmes nodded, scowling lightly. "Nanny..." he muttered as though a curse, arms crossed.

Ichabod smirked. "Still have a grudge, Sherlock? I've been gone seven years and you still hate the caretaker."

"She has it in for me, Ichabod, I swear to you that," Holmes insisted.

"We'll see, Sherlock," the Constable mocked. "Good-night to you."

"Yes, you too," Holmes concurred with a nod, retreating into the outside hall. "D'you need a candle?"

"No, thank you," Ichabod said simply, and Holmes nodded again, closing the door with a soft snap and indulging him into total darkness. For once, Ichabod didn't mind, setting the pillow down on the bed against the headboard. Unbuttoning his coat he shrugged it off, tossing it to the end of the bed, sitting exhaustedly on the edge of the mattress and rubbing his forehead, wiping his hair from his eyes.

"What a strange day..." he mumbled, collapsing back onto the sheets. He turned onto his stomach, pushing himself up and crawling onto it. Laying down on top of the covers he didn't bother to kick off his boots, slipping on arm underneath the pillow, gripping it tightly, face buried in the worn fabric.

Almost instantly, he fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

*Yay, Ichabod's not having another nightmare! Huzzah! Kill me and flame me all you like, all retaliate with an IRON FIST! -whips out hand, which is equipped with a replica of Iron Man's glove- Prepare to taste lasers, flamer bros! HI-YAH!*


	4. Hold the Door

*Haaaaay! READ.*

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson groaned in self pity, eyes instinctively rolling the next morning at his locked door, a tray of warm tea and biscuits in her hands. "Are we going to have to go through this nonsense again?" An incoherent grunt sounded from the other side, followed by a few mumbles and the tinkering of a piece of metal.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson?" a shy voice spoke up from behind her, causing her to jump in surprise and nearly drop the tray. She whirled around, sighting a man about an inch taller then her yet an inch shorter than Holmes. He had rather prominent cheekbones, face pale as a ghost's that contrasted phenomenally to his ink black mop of scraggly hair on his head and chocolate brown eyes that looked sunken in their sockets. He was limply carrying a black trench coat in his arms, wearing knee-high black boots with dark trousers belted to his waist, a stark white yet slightly wrinkled button-up shirt hanging loosely from it.

Mrs. Hudson caught her breath, holding a hand to her chest to steady her heartbeat. "Sorry," he apologized sheepishly, offering a thin smile. "What's wrong?"

You mean other than the fact you scared me half out of my wits? she snapped in her thoughts. Instead she demanded, firmly ignoring his question, "Who on Earth are you and what are you doing in this house this early in the morning?"

His grin faltered slightly. "Sherlock hadn't told you?" he asked curiously, eyebrow quirked. To himself he added. "I figured he would..."

"Oh, come now, Ichabod," Holmes' voice erupted from the room, just behind the closed door. "You should know me well enough so that you wouldn't think such nonsense. Besides, she left for home early last night; I certainly didn't want to go out looking for her in that weather."

"True," Ichabod concurred, nodding. "Though, I was merely hoping you would do so as to not give Mrs. Hudson a heart failure." His eyes cast the landlady an apologetic glance.

"Hmm." A pause. "Good point."

"Indeed," Ichabod said. "My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson straightened her dress as she gave him a warm smile. "Its no trouble at all, Constable Crane," she admitted. "MY sincerest apologies. I'm far more startled than I used to be, let that be the truth."

Ichabod stepped forward, rapping his knuckles rhythmically upon the door's surface. "Sherlock?" he called. "Is there any particular reason you've locked yourself in your room?"

"If you knew me as well as you proclaim, you'd know by now," Holmes remarked.

"It happens everyday; there's nothing new about it," Mrs. Hudson sighed, tray set on floor to the far corner and hands set on hips in a firm stance that showed both the fact she'd been through this more than plenty time former and that she was rightfully exasperated about the display. "Forcing himself to avoid a meal and a good rest is just fine. Why not have him kill himself?"

"Its all Watson's fault, and you know it!" Holmes told her.

"It is not!" Mrs. Hudson argued.

"He's been boycotting food and sleep?" Ichabod questioned, alarmed.

"I have not," Holmes declared boldly.

"You have to, and you know it," Mrs. Hudson said smugly.

"Prove it." Holmes was just as cocky.

"Really?" Mrs. Hudson did not wait for a response. "Why, if you weren't, you'd already be downstairs eating something decent and not up here in this Godforsaken room eating nothing but a pile of scraps once a week!"

Ichabod's eyebrows rose in shock, and Holmes didn't say a word. A flourish of clicks were heard, and soon the door swung open, Holmes glaring ever so lightly at the landlady as she smirked, turning on her heel and picking back up the tray, making her way down the steps to the kitchen.

"Nanny..." the detective growled in distaste, both his and Ichabod's eyes following her retreating form. At the sound of his voice the New Yorker turned his attention back to his friend, taking a step back at his fatigue; his brunette hair was ruffled more than the day before, almost as if struck by lightening. Dark bags were under his bloodshot eyes that were sending him an accusing look, shirt halfway unbuttoned and wrinkled, untucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Good God, man, what have you done to yourself?" Ichabod asked sternly, eyebrows furrowed.

"Nothing at all," Holmes said shortly, leading him down the staircase after Mrs. Hudson. "If you'd been paying attention last night you would've noticed I look no different than how I do now."

"It was abnormally dark inside, Sherlock, surely you took notice," Ichabod reminded him.

Holmes merely smirked, casting him an amused glance over his shoulder. "I know." That's when his stomach grumbled, and Holmes clutched his abdomen, trying to silence the sound to no avail.

Ichabod grinned. "I believe your appetite has a mind of its own."

"I'm not hungry." His stomach growled louder.

"I beg to differ," Ichabod chuckled. "You're just telling yourself that. How many times have I told you you're just as human as anyone other when it comes to physical health?"

"I lost count after two hundred seventy-three," Holmes admitted, turning a corner with Ichabod in tow.

"You must eat, Sherlock," the Constable said in a teacher-to-student tone, grin easing to a look of calm seriousness. "And rest. You won't be able to comprehend the simplest of situations, even with your mind. You should be well aware of such."

"Since when have you become a doctor?" Holmes questioned, detouring away from the topic.

"In order to report causes of death in not-so-obvious cases," Ichabod began. "One must be a professional in fields of investigation, observation, and medical views and illnesses. Though I do wish I'd skipped that course..." He shivered at the thought; that poor, consumption-induced man...

Holmes barked out a laugh. "I didn't."

"Oh, no." Ichabod nodded. "That's because AT FIRST, you wanted to be a scientist. Afterwards the Scotland Yard took notice of your talents and granted you permission to be such kind of detective. You didn't have to go through classes."

"Considering so," Holmes added, opening the kitchen's door with his shoulder. "You should be better than myself in that specific field. But you're not."

"I don't mind," Ichabod said with a shrug.

Mrs. Hudson looked up from washing leftover dishes, smirking at the display with a quirked brow. "My, my, you've managed to venture further than the sitting room. Well done, Mr. Holmes."

"Do not test me, Nanny," Holmes snapped as she dried her hands one a towel, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, brushing her hair from her face. She took a hairpin, tying it up in a bun as Holmes sat himself down at the single table inside of the room, playing with the food in front of him with his fork as she addressed Ichabod, who was pulling on his coat; "Are you staying for breakfast, Constable?"

"No, I can't, Mrs. Hudson," Ichabod told her, buttoning it up. He smiled and shook her hand, bowing his head. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Its quite alright," she said sweetly. She pursed her lips, glowering at Holmes, who was still picking at his eggs. "I just appreciate that SOMEONE around her is a proper gentleman."

"Thanks you, Mrs. Hudson," Ichabod said with a grateful smile, walking over to Holmes. He set a hand on his shoulder, the other hidden in his pocket fiddling with the stone. Holmes looked up with half-lidded eyes, obviously tired. "Eat something, okay?" he instructed. "I don't want my best friend dying of starvation."

Holmes grinned smartly and chuckled at that. "I give no promises."

The New Yorker merely sighed. "You haven't changed at all."

"I like to keep it simple." Holmes shrugged, picking up a piece of toast and chewing on the edge uninterestedly.

"As I've noticed," Ichabod said. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, who was busy making a pot of tea with her back to him. "After he's finished, do have him get some rest. I'll return in an hour or so; I need to test the affects of this." He pulled the cyanide stone from his pocket, eyeing it with intrigument.

Mrs. Hudson turned to him, pouring a cup of the warm liquid and setting it down in front of Holmes. "Will do, Constable. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Ichabod said, leaving and sauntering out the door, hands clasped behind his back, fingering the stone.

Walking into the sunlit streets the investigator began to close the door behind himself- "Pardon me, Constable," a feminine voice arose from behind, a dark haired woman in a ruby pink dress tapping on his shoulder. "Hold the door."

*LE GASP! Guess who the mystery girl is... 'course, if you've seen the Sherlock Holmes movie, you'd know already. Ah well. I don't care. WILL BE REVEALED NEXT CHAPTER IF YOU'RE TOO LAZY TO GO CHECK THE MOVIE OR ACTUALLY THINK.*


	5. Tresspassing

*Yup. GUESS WHO IT IS! Nah, you don't have to. I'll tall you... eventually. Oh, and I wanna say thanks to everyone who's been reviewing. Thankies! So, without further adieu, let us begin, shall I?*

Ichabod, being polite, opened the door back up. She smiled in thanks and walked inside, him closing the door fully behind her and walking off the porch, pausing on the sidewalk as his mind began racing. He looked back to the door, remembering her dress and hair color, as well as the faint glint of gold that had glimmered across her neck in the dawn's early sunlight.

Leaving it to think over later he raised the stone to his face, examining it deeply as it created that rainbow effect on the cyanide again. He looked it over sharply, taking in the way it curved and had jagged edges and craters just as the coal had. The cyanide had frozen on the coal in such a way it was as though wax seeping in through cracks to relieve any upset.

Tossing it lightly in the air he easily caught it again, pocketing it and swiftly making his way down the street, back-tracking the movements of the coach that had taken him there. It was a curse, truly, having a mind so sensitive he couldn't help but to memorize such actions. Holmes, of course, found it intriguing and undeniably helpful.

_~*weirdness*~_

Quickly, he'd found his way back, unlocking the door and opening it ever so slightly as to peer inside in case there was an intruder. No sign, so he walked in, closing it and clicking it shut in the process.

Everything appeared to be in the place he'd left it, the unorganized organization he'd kept it in since he'd arrived. There was one thing, actually two, he didn't remember of his doing; the window was wide open, the curtains billowing gently against the faint breeze; and there was a piece of stray parchment upon his desk, next to his spectacle-goggles with the magnifying glass attached to the left. He, of course, does not leave his plans nor theories laying around in plain sight for anyone who enters to snatch it up and take off with it. He hides them.

So this, naturally, was not of his doing.

Brow knitted, Ichabod casually strode to his desk, picking it up and unfolding it. His forehead gradually creased as he read on, looking out the window when finished into the sunlit courtyard and cobblestone sidewalks of London, bystanders just beginning to wake and walk about.

'Dear Constable Crane,' it had read. 'I have noticed you progress in your studies. I have also noticed how you've reacquainted with Sherlock Holmes under... studious instances. However, the murders are merely the beginning or such unfortunate events. They will get more gruesome, quickly, and you will not be able to stop them by your lonesome. Keep that stone out of sight, or you'll be next on the deathbed. I shall meet with you soon enough, Constable. Thank you.' No signature was present, and yet due to the lettering, Ichabod had a fond idea of who was responsible."

That woman, he thought exasperatedly. That woman that entered Sherlock's home under my doing. Who is she? Sherlock obviously knows her, but to what purpose?...

Ichabod sighed, placing the hastily scrawled-over note back down on the side of his desk away from his experimantational area, grabbing his bag and clicking it open. He rummaged around inside, taking out his tweezer-like, magnifying-glass attached tool and inspecting it to be sure it was available for proper usage. Setting his leather bag aside he picked up his goggles, strapping them on whilst pulling the stone from his pocket once more, kneeling down and tapping it lightly. It echoed a faint sound resembling wind chime music.

The New Yorker let out a deep breath, blowing his locks from his eyes. This was going to be a long hour...

*~_strangeness_~*

"Hello, Ms. Adler," Mrs. Hudson spoke up from the kitchen doorway around fifteen minutes after Ichabod's departure, smiling kindly. "How are you? I haven't seen you in months."

"I'm doing quite well, Mrs. Hudson, thank you," Irene said with a grin. "Yourself?"

"Oh, I'm doing alright," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "As well as I can be with the Doctor not only married, but out of England for the next two weeks. You're here to see Mr. Holmes, I'm sure?"

"Yes. Do you know where he is?" Irene asked, holding her purse loosely in front or herself.

"In the sitting room," the landlady answered nonchalantly, a shrug escaping her shoulders. "I suggest you don't bother him; I've just persuaded him to have a good rest. Its the best and longest he's slept in a month, if I do recall."

"I won't, then," Irene said. She opened her pocket book, digging inside and pulling out a letter. She handed it to Mrs. Hudson. "When he wakes up, do give this to him. No need to tell him who its from; he'll deduce it in under three point five seconds, I garuntee you that."

"Of course, Ms. Adler," Mrs. Hudson agreed, nodding. Irene bowed her head and turned, the clicking of her heels evident as she closed the door behind her. Mrs. Hudson glanced at the folded piece of parchment, making her way to the closed sitting room doors, pushing them open as quietly as possible due to their extensive creaking.

She stuck her head inside, seeing Holmes laid out on the couch, one arm limply hanging over the edge and the other used as a cushion under his head. His legs were stretched across the sofa, eyes closed, breaths steady and soft.

Mrs. Hudson let out a silent sigh of relief. Thank God he's asleep, she thought gratefully, stepping inside and making her way over to him. Setting Irene's message on the coffee table before him after clearing the space of any half-full bottles of liquid- specifically alcohol- or notes written in French she looked down to him. Most of his hair covered his face, moving only so slightly when he breathed out.

Smiling at his with little smug she chuckled, hand poised on hip, "Oh, Mr. Holmes. When will you ever learn?"

_~*abnormality*~_

Ichabod's eyebrows involuntarily furrowed. The discovery he'd made was rather fascinating, but equally confusing. The cyanide did not look its usual color any longer; it was sheer red, so bright yet so dark it look as though blood. It was shimmering maroon, specks of midnight black and sparking gold gleaming in its depths. The coal, the black spots, was jest ever so slightly visible. The gold stood out far more.

"Strange..." he murmured, straightening his hunched neck and pulling up his goggles, giving it an inquisitive look of which he knew it would not answer. "Very strange indeed."

His head snapped upwards, whipping to the source of the rattling noise ringing from his door. The knob was shaking vigorously, and pounds reverberated from the wood. Someone was trying to break in.

Ichabod's breath was caught in his throat, and he pushed his goggles back on, getting to his feet and pocketing the stone once again. He brought up his bag, swiftly packing it with the contraptions he'd taken out in his experimentations. The knocks, followed by bellows, grew louder as Ichabod hurried to his still open window, sticking his head out and looking down. Thankfully, he was only about two stories up, at most. And there was a dumpster beneath him. Truth be told, he'd rather smell like rotten food then either be taken hostage or killed with no mercy. Both didn't sound very exquisite.

Taking in a breath the Constable climbed onto the sill, balancing himself after teetering dangerously by gripping the walls. Loud bangs came form the door, and Ichabod glanced over his shoulder, noticing how they were continuously slamming into it with their body- or bodies. Looking back down he gulped despite himself, jumping off.

Safely and softly he landed in the dumpster, shaking his head and wiping his hair from his face. Ichabod sat up, pinching his nose shut with two fingers and crawling out of the foul-smelling garbage, snatching up his bag and dusting himself off.

He readjusted his goggles, thinking to himself why he'd put them back over his eyes in the first place. They made everything appear larger, magnified so much things were blurry and fuzzy along their outlines. Not to mention his eyes looked similar to that of an insect's, which sent a cold chill up his spine at every time someone spoke of it.

Damn his irrational fear of bugs.

*Okay, first off, I know they probably didn't have dumpsters in eighteenth century London. Secondly, all will be revealed in good time. Had I failed you in conceding it was Irene Adler who entered Holmes' abode?*


	6. Idiocracy

*Okay, truth be told, I'm just trying to finish putting this up here for absolutely no reason. 'Sides, not a lot of people seem to be enjoying it. After about a year or so I'll probably delete it, just like all the other ones that supposedly 'suck'. Anyways, why don't you just read, okay?*

Booming pounds echoed from the front door of 221b Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson looked up from her work, surprised. Her eyes flickered to the closed sitting room doors, wiping her hands on her apron and hastily rushing to the door, the knocks getting more frantic as yells raged from outside, almost pleading, but the landlady couldn't exactly tell.

She swung open the door with a hard, heated glare, Ichabod shoving past her and slamming the door shut again, breathing heavily as his back leaned against the wood, bag now dropped to the floor with a strange pair of spectacles on his face.

"Constable!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, forgetting for a moment to not keep her voice quiet. Composing herself she added, "What is the meaning of this?"

Panting to catch his breath considering the fact he'd just ran at least five blocks to the address of which he was currently inside Ichabod coughed out, "I was- nearly- ambushed- at the apartment."

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows rose, mouth agape in fear and concern. "Ambushed?" Her voice was motherly. "Are you hurt?"

"They'd not touched me; I wasn't able to get a look at their faces, though," Ichabod said in the calmest voice he could muster, trying to take in oxygen levels correctly. "I ask for forgiveness of my sudden intrusion. I've obviously woken Sherlock."

"It positively fine, Constable," Mrs. Hudson said smoothly, patting his shoulder reassuringly as she guided him into the sitting room, Ichabod snatching up his bag and allowing her to do so.

Mrs. Hudson walked them in, Holmes now lying flat on his back with his hands massaging his face to rub away the sleep. "Mr. Holmes," she spoke up, his attention resting on her. "I apologize for barging in like this, but..."

Holmes sat upright, hands on the couch to keep his balance. "It's quite alright, Mrs. Hudson," he said sleepily, yawning afterwards. "Has it been an hour?"

"No, no," Mrs. Hudson told him, keeping the fact she was ever so stunned when Holmes had called her by her surname hidden by her concerned facade for Ichabod's safety. The New Yorker tossed his bag carelessly into on of the free chairs, pulling the stone out of his pocket for the umpteenth time and waving it to suggest something had happened due to the little thing.

Holmes sighed. "You'd nearly been attacked, hadn't you, Ichabod?"

"Nearly, note the word," Ichabod agreed, moving forward and kneeling down by the side of the couch. "This is extremely unique."

"How so?" Holmes questioned, eyes narrowed at Ichabod's intense concentration placed upon the stone. "Well, other than the obvious, of course."

He looked up, handing it to him and unstrapping the goggles, giving him those, as well. "You are only able to see it with these on," he admitted.

"Some of your own?" Holmes said knowingly, buckling them to his face. Ichabod nodded.

"What on Earth are you two talking about, Constable?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously, hands fo9lded in front of herself as she walked up to the duo, Holmes exami8ning the particles of the stone with utmost intrigument, eyes traveling over each edge with expertise rivaling Ichabod's own.

The New Yorker glanced up at her, getting to his feet. "Are you aware that cyanide is, while in liquid form, a greenish blue tinge resembling that of fresh-water algae?"

Mrs. Hudson scoffed. "Catering to Mr. Holmes here for nine years DOES have a rather prominent effect on you."

"Yes, well," Ichabod continued, eyes glazing over the room and trinkets about the floor and furniture. "Its not that color anymore."

"Then what is it?" Mrs. Hudson said, eyebrow quirked.

"Maroon," Holmes said from his spot on the sofa. "You can see black and gold, as well. Hmm... the cold temperature of the cyanide combined with the mineral of the coal and the heat intensity of said mineral had caused it to drastically change form and harden around it as though a shield." His head moved, eyes piercing Ichabod and Mrs. Hudson through the thick glass lens of the spectacles. "It normally would not've hardened at all. The molecules in the cyanide had reached such a point that when they had interacted with the hot ones of the coal, it reacted in such a way it had frozen. As for the color, the coal was burning excess, unneeded parts of its mineral system, and released them into the cyanide as it begun its freezing process. Quite extraordinary, indeed..."

"So its amazingly irregular?" Ichabod said, realization leaking indefinitely from his tone.

Holmes nodded. "Undoubtedly so." His eyes lowered back to the stone in his hands, tilting it this way and that. "I've never seen another case of it, nor have I ever read of it."

"How would the trespassers know of it then?" Ichabod asked himself aloud, beginning to pace back and forth, careful of Holmes' instruments covering the ground, one hand behind his back, the other tapping his chin as he thought.

Something clicked in Mrs. Hudson's head, having her bustle forward past Ichabod, picking up Irene's note. "Mr. Holmes," she said, having him look up to her. She held out the letter, the detective critically gazing at it before snatching it out of her hands, holding it to his nose and taking a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent.

He pulled it away. "Ms. Adler was here to deliver this to me while I was resting, I presume?" he said with an air of slight smugness at his ability to register Irene's unique perfume in under two point eight seconds. "I knew I smelt something out of the ordinary when I'd woken."

"Indeed," Mrs. Hudson said with a curt nod, glancing back to catch the inquistitive look Ichabod was sending her, obviously unknown to the Woman they were speaking of. Holmes unfolded the parchment, reading it over swiftly as Mrs. Hudson began explaining; "She's one of Mr. Holmes' acquaintances- one of many, actually."

"And the antisocial now has more friends then the creepy kid down the street," Ichabod teased with a smart grin.

"Mhmm..." Holmes mumbled, not exactly paying attention. After he was finished he scoffed, crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it to the other side of the room, missing the can as usual and leaving it in a heap with the other disastrous idea that were bound to go wrong had he tried. "Ridiculous..." he huffed, taking off the goggles and handing back to Ichabod as he passed, who took them grateful and stuffed them in his bag.

"Sherlock," the Constable spoke his thoughts as the unruly man stood, him now pacing hastily back and forth, eyes glazed over in an unblinking and unseeing stare towards the floor, hands clasped behind back. "Let me be blunt- are there truly murder rambling about, or am I here on account of foolish reasons that ended with me making something so valuable my life is at stake?"

"Oh, there have been murders, Ichabod," Holmes said sharply, not daring to tear his eyes from the floorboards. "Four, so far. More to come, I suspect. Crime shows no mercy."

"Yes," Ichabod agreed quietly, sitting himself down on the armrest of one of the chairs, head resting in palm, tapping his foot impatiently to an unknown rhythm. "What did the letter?"

Holmes paused, but only for a small portion of a moment. "Idiocracy," he said simply. "Total idiocracy."

"I had received a letter, as well, as I've told you," Ichabod said abruptedly, Holmes taking in what he'd said but not showing it on the outside. "Perhaps this Ms. Adler had hired the intruders to steal it knowing that's what I'd be doing-"

"Perhaps, but not very likely," Holmes interjected, halting and turning to him. Mrs. Hudson stood at the edge of the sofa, arms folded across her chest as she listened with interest. "Ms. Adler prefers and tends to take the most part in her burglaries, if not do it by herself and, all together, by her lonesome. She most definitely wouldn't hire some goons to do it for her and sit around to wait for it to be handed to her like a new puppy. It was not her. Besides, I was present at each of the scenes of the homicides; Nothing smelt of jasmine perfume."

Ichabod sighed to stifle a shout of frustration, running a hand through his tangles of black hair. "D'you have any clue as to who it might be? Its dreadfully confusing."

Mrs. Hudson spoke up, "I may have a solution to this madness.

"Have you?" both Holmes and Ichabod said unanimously. Ichaobd sounded hopeful. Holmes, however, sounded terribly incredulistic.

"I have," the landlady said certainly, nodding to reassure herself. "One of you, call a coach immediately." She hurried to the stairwell, pulling on the oak mantelpiece at the bottom of the rail. It clicked, popping open on a single, cleverly painted hinge. She reached inside, taking out a fully loaded revolver and readying it for usage at any given time.

Looking back to the boys she noticed they hadn't moved, both gazing at her in amazement with wide eyes and open mouths. She smirked despite herself at their surprise. "Well, what are you two waiting for?" she asked. "An invitation?"

Holmes was the first to come to his senses, shaking his head slightly and tousling his already unruly hair, grinning. He saluted her with two fingers in amusement. "Right away, Mrs. Hudson," he said in a fake-serious-and-stern voice, mocking that of Dr. Watson and any other army soldier of which he'd read of, rushing off to the double doors and outside to call a cab.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled as Ichabod repeated Holmes' earlier action, hopping from the armrest to the floor. "I suppose I've never mentioned I was a nurse in the military, am I correct in insinuating, Constable?"

*Yup, Mrs. Hudson's a badass. I've always liked her. I mean- come ON! Other than Irene and Mary (Mary of which I sort of don't like. Irene is frickin' AWESOME) she's the only female in the movie- well, except that teen that nearly committed suicide in the beginning, but that's beside the point. I found that a little offensive. So, I made her awesomer. Yup. And no- I'm not going to tell you what Irene told Holmes. Ever. EVER. So quit telling yourself, "Oh, I can totally bribe her!" because you can't because you're on the internet. Get a life, Nerd-o. Laters!*


End file.
